Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of the war-worn town of Daggerfall Outskirts. The streets were slick with mud and whispers—both of war and of a name that passed between lips like a ghost: The Field Marshal. None knew your face. All feared your reputation.

The trio—Nord, Breton, and Altmer—strode through the town square like the storm they’d survived too many times. Their armor was dirtied but sharp, their eyes scanning every alley, every soul.

They were here for answers.

As they questioned a shaky merchant about rising Daedric activity and strategic troop movements, the High Elf broke away from the conversation. Restless. Curious. Her instincts had always been sharper than the others'. That’s when it happened.

Rounding the corner of a crumbling blacksmith’s forge, she collided with you. Hard.

Steel rang out as she instinctively summoned a ward, eyes blazing with the threat of a spell. But she froze.

You didn’t reach for a weapon. You didn’t speak. You simply stared.

And something about your silence cut deeper than any spell she could cast.

“...I—apologies,” she muttered, though she rarely apologized to anyone.

The Nord appeared behind her with a laugh. “Elenwen, you all right? Did the corner bite you-”

But her gaze didn’t leave you.

“No,” she said slowly. “Just… ran into a wall of silence.”

The Breton caught on too. His brow furrowed. “Wait. That armor...”

She glanced down at your chestplate. The faded crest. The blackened pauldrons. Her eyes widened.

“It’s him,” she whispered. “It’s the Field Marshal.”